Two Plus Two Equals Five
by WhiteWings9
Summary: "But there's no law against owning a diary, he reminded himself, and took what little comfort that knowledge offered him." A day in the life of Arthur Kirkland, a civil servant. Nineteen Eighty-Four!AU. England/China, England/Prussia, implied China/Russia. Alcohol consumption. Angst. Dystopia.
1. Chapter 1

**2 + 2 = 5**

**Chapter 1**

Arthur Kirkland could not explain even to himself for the sudden impulsive purchase of the paperbound diary now weighing in his bag. He had happened to be a little early in leaving for work that morning, and had seen the diary lying in a shop window. When he tried to pay for it, the shopkeeper had peered at him with what Arthur thought was suspicion, but had totted it up on an old register nonetheless – ten credits – and for the first time in years Arthur had paid in cash.

The digital age meant nobody wrote on paper anymore. Everything was done electronically. An e-reader had become the only access to books, periodicals, and newspapers, all carefully vetted by the Ministry of Truth, and almost everyone had taken to equipping themselves with smartphones, with apps for everything from note taking to accessing social networking sites. Although never expressly forbidden, paper publications had come to develop an implicit unlawfulness about them, partly because it has become the main medium for dissident propaganda.

Just being in possession of a new paperbound diary weighed Arthur with guilt and mild paranoia.

_But there's no law against owning a diary_, he reminded himself, and took what little comfort that knowledge offered him.

He needed a pen. Perhaps a lovely fountain pen to go with the diary's rich, creamy pages. He could buy one from the handicrafts' store on his way home in the evening.

Just then his smartphone sprang into a lively tinkling version of 'Rule Britannia'. He dug it out from a coat pocket and stabbed at the touch screen to stop the tune. It was a reminder from his calendar that today was the first Monday of the month. A frown worked its way into his brows. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued on his way to work.

* * *

Arthur worked for the Ministry of Truth in the Department for Quality Control of Participatory Media Outlets. He had taken to calling it 'the censorship department,' but only to himself and never out loud. It would never do to cross the Party.

He slung his coat over the back of his chair and seated himself, reaching down to boot up the computer. The CPU started up with a jerky whirr which smoothed to a hum, and he was just about to settle back into his chair when it gave out. The monitor flashed blue once then went blank. Arthur stared at it for a minute, slightly stunned. That had never happened before.

He pressed the 'on' button again, and again. Nothing. He picked up his desk phone and dialled 0.

"Minitrue assistance, how can I help you?"

"Hello. My computer is refusing to switch on."

"You'll want technical support. Hold on a minute."

Arthur waited as the receiver piped something classical into his ear. Chopin, he thinks. Then someone picked up.

"Technical support," barked the person on the other end.

"Er, hello, yes. My computer is refusing to sw-"

"Have you tried turning it off and on again?" It was delivered in a flat tone, on auto-pilot.

"No. I mean yes." Arthur felt a little indignant. "The computer is most definitely malfunctioning. Can I have someone look at it, please?"

"All right, I'll send someone up." It sounded a little grudging.

"Thank y-"

The person on the other end hung up before he could finish.

It took half an hour for someone to turn up, enough time for Arthur to read what little of the official Party news he cared to read on his smartphone. The austerity budget has succeeded in cutting the national deficit by over a half; income tax is set to rise to further speed financial recovery; unemployment has been halved; jobseekers' allowance will be scrapped and replaced with a fairer system that will usher the undeserving poor back into the workplace.

"Gilbert Weilschmidt, tech support, what's up?"

Arthur looked up. The man leaning over his cubicle wall had deep, purplish red eyes and a shock of platinum white hair. His skin was the palest Arthur had ever seen on a person. The entire sight was a little alarming and bizarre, and it took Arthur aback for a moment.

Gilbert Weilschmidt was chewing gum, and he blew a little bubble before smacking it with a loud pop. Arthur recovered himself.

"Er, yes. My computer is having trouble turning on..."

Gilbert circled around the cubicle, and Arthur rolled his chair to the side to give him more space. The technician tried clicking the power buttons on the monitor and the CPU, and when nothing happened he leaned over to poke at the mass of wires behind the monitor, inadvertently presenting Arthur with a rather pleasing view of his well-shaped rear. As he worked, Arthur's eyes wandered to take in the rest of the young man's curves. He skimmed regretfully past the red sash tied around his waist (he had taken the Party's absurd oath of celibacy, it seems), and lingered on the oversized spanner hanging from a hook on the side of his grey coveralls.

"Right, I can't tell what the problem is from here, but it looks _kaput_ for the day," Gilbert declared as he straightened up. Arthur turned away, slightly horrified at the direction his thoughts were straying in.

"Oh I see." It came out as a squeak. He cringed internally.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Gilbert said with a shrug of his shoulders that was, to Arthur, inexplicably suggestive. "I'll go fetch you a laptop you can borrow for a bit, and put a request for a new computer for you. All you work files should be intact on the main server."

"That sounds fine, thank you."

"No problem."

And as Gilbert Weilschmidt left, whistling tunelessly, Arthur could not help but steal a wistful glance after his rear. He immediately felt disgusted with himself.

* * *

Wang Yao was already seated at their usual table when Arthur arrived, slightly breathless and ten minutes late, at the café they had agreed to meet at once every month. He ordered a pot of Earl Grey and threaded his way through the throng of patrons to Yao.

"Good afternoon, Arthur," Yao greeted smoothly. He was impeccable as always in a sharp suit, shoulder-length hair tied in a loose but neat ponytail.

"Good afternoon. I'm sorry I ran a little late."

"It's fine." And Yao smiled the cold, little smile Arthur had grown to despise the sight of.

"I see you haven't waited," Arthur said with a pointed look at the chicken salad on the table. He squeezed himself into the seat opposite Yao just as his tea arrived.

"Six credits, sir," the waiter murmured.

Arthur handed his smartphone over to be scanned, and the payment was settled.

"Are you not having anything to eat?" Yao asked, arching one perfect eyebrow. For a moment he sounded almost genuine in his concern. Almost.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to take better care of yourself."

Yao ate the last few forkfuls of his salad with prim, delicate bites. Arthur poured his tea, added some milk, and took a sip. He had not let it steep for long enough in the teapot, so it was a little weak. He drank it anyway.

"So, how are you doing?" Yao asked as he set his cutlery down. He dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin.

"I'm fine. Nothing new to report." He pictured the paperbound diary in his bag and pushed the thought firmly away. "And you?"

"The same." There was that little smile again curving his lips, not quite reaching those brilliant golden eyes. Arthur felt suddenly irritated.

"And how's Ivan?"

The little smile disappeared instantly. He took some vindictive pleasure in that.

"These meetings are supposed to save our marriage, Arthur," Yao said coldly.

"Oh, I'm fully aware."

"Really? I'm not sure you are."

The waiter arrived again, cutting short the beginning of any argument, and set down a small cup of espresso on the table. Eight credits. Yao allowed the waiter to scan his smartphone, and the waiter left with his empty plate. An uncomfortable silence fell over the unhappy couple as they sipped their respective beverages and cast around for a topic of civil conversation. The low chatter from the other tables served only to heighten their isolation.

Yao's phone gave a little ping, and Arthur could see relief lighting up those particularly expressive eyes of his. He took a sip of his tea to hide his – disappointment? No, anger. He tried not to think of whom it was who sent the message and interrupted their time together.

"I have to go now. Work."

"I know."

Yao snapped out a stylus and drew across the touch screen of his phone. Arthur took out his own phone and stylus, and added his signature to the report they were required to send off to the civil registry every time they meet. It was done, for another month. Yao packed away his phone and got to his feet.

Then, with a wary glance at the telescreen advertising Dior perfume, Yao leaned over the little table to kiss Arthur full on the lips. The kiss seared with a passion neither felt for one another any longer, but Yao was meticulous in everything, even down to this absurd little act for the benefit of whomever it was sat behind that telescreen, and Arthur met the kiss with a vigour all of his own, his hand wrapping round Yao's silk tie to tug him down, swallowing the gasp that escaped his lips.

When they finally separated, panting slightly, Yao's eyes were firmly averted and Arthur cast his own down in shame.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Until next month."

He watched Yao leave the café, and cursed inwardly at himself.

* * *

He stared down at the smooth page before, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a handsome fountain pen in the other. He took a swallow of the whiskey to steel himself, and brought the pen slowly to paper.

_Met Y for lunch. First Monday of the month. The same as every other month for the last year and a half._

_The computer was broken at work, so technical support lent me a portable._

He hesitated then. Took another swallow of whiskey. Continued.

_Met G. Technician who looked at my computer. He is quite interesting._

He stared at the words in stark black on white, there for everyone see. He waited for the ink to dry, and closed the diary.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 + 2 = 5**

**Chapter 2**

Telescreens are installed in every public space. They run advertisements for big brand names, everything from fashion and cosmetics to the latest Apple product, and these are interspersed with reminders to the 'good citizens of New Britannia' to report any dissident activity to the Thought Police immediately. What everyone also knew but rarely spoke about was that the telescreens were a two-way system. They feed live images and sound to the Thought Police, putting the public under constant surveillance. There had been some objections to them in the beginning, but such protests had ceased altogether by now. It can still be an unnerving experience to walk down the length of a street lined with telescreens, even if one had no reason to fear the authorities.

Whenever he got into one of his more paranoid moods, Arthur would regard the telescreen in his apartment with some suspicion that it was also rigged to feed footage to the Thought Police. It had come embedded in the wall of the living area, and when he had asked about it the housing agency had informed him that it was increasingly the norm for houses and apartments to come with inbuilt screens.

"The budget to install telescreens comes from the Party itself," the person at the agency had said, and Arthur stopped his questioning then.

Arthur was not much for watching telescreen programmes. Fashion shows, DIY makeovers, soap operas, and talent shows with sub-par contestants did not appeal to him, especially not when they come with a fresh onslaught of advertisements. He rarely switched on the screen, and if he could he would have had it uninstalled and sent away. The only thing stopping him from calling for a removal service was the fact that it was a Party-sanctioned installation.

It would never do to cross the Party.

At work, the Ministry have yet to provide Arthur with a new computer. The laptop technical support had loaned him was only barely adequate for his work, so it was a matter of some concern.

"Sorry it's taking so long. There's a queue for new equipment for the department, and some moron's bound to lose the request or something somewhere along the line," Gilbert Weilschmidt from technical support had reported with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. The shrug was as sensual as Arthur had found it the first time.

"It's all right," Arthur had reassured him with perhaps a tad too transparent an enthusiasm. The longer it takes for the Ministry to cough up a new computer for him, the more he would be seeing of Gilbert Weilschmidt.

He tried not to dwell too much on the thought.

That evening after work, he had a less-than-welcomed run-in with Ivan Braginski from the Ministry of Love. He frowned at the sight of him in the lobby, wondering what that man could possibly need from his department. His attempt to walk past and pretend not to notice him was thwarted when the man stepped into his path with every intention of addressing him.

"Arthur Kirkland, it is good to see you again," Ivan said, all smiles and piercing violet eyes.

"Braginski, evening," Arthur returned curtly. He tried to brush past him, but Ivan blocked his way again with a deliberate step to his left.

"I hope Yao is doing well? Are things working out between the two of you?"

Arthur shot him a look of pure loathing.

"Perhaps," he said evasively. _Like you don't see him every day, _he thought bitterly. "Pardon me, I have a train to catch."

He all but shoved past Ivan, and kept his eyes firmly ahead as he exited the building.

The streets at night were lined with beggars, and the reason Arthur always kept some change on his person was so he could hand them out as alms. Guilt perhaps for being employed and paid so well, when so many were destitute.

"Please sir, spare some change? I have a baby, he needs milk, he needs…"

Arthur pressed a note for five credits into her trembling hand and walked on. Her profuse thanks and blessings followed him down the street.

Once he had wondered aloud, without thinking, the disparity between the reports of abundant harvests from the Ministry of Plenty and the millions of New Britannian citizens languishing below the breadline. He and Yao had still been living together then, although their marriage was already starting to come apart, and Yao had looked up from across the breakfast table with a cold, accusing look Arthur did not care to see from him again.

"It's because they chose not to work. The Party is not a charity, Arthur."

"And should children have to work and beg for their meals?" he had thrown back in a flash of anger, because a child of no more than seven had proposed him with 'some fun' the night before, and he had not known what to do to help other than to give her enough money to feed for a week.

Yao's eyes had softened then. He had always held a soft spot for children.

"No," he said quietly. "Which is why the Party has started the Children's Protection Programme."

The Children's Protection Programme takes in orphans, abandoned children, and children whose parents were simply too poor to provide for them. There was a population crisis a few years after the abolition of legal abortion services and free contraception, and a spike in unemployment saw hundreds of thousands of children turning to the streets to beg. The problem was allowed to fester for a while before the Party was shamed into running the programme.

Arthur bit his tongue on what he thought of the Children's Protection Programme and returned to his e-reader for the rest of the morning news. His jaw clenched with the effort to suppress his rage, but he forced himself to relax under Yao's penetrating gaze. Yao soon returned to his work on his tablet. It was the last time Arthur dared speak of politics.

The Children's Protection Programme has since been privatised.

"Spare some change, mate?"

A man in a faded oversized coat held a hand before him, smiling hopefully. Arthur shook out of his moody thoughts. He dug into his pockets for the last of his cash.

"Here," he said, pouring a handful of coins into his hand. "Sorry it's not much."

"That's okay."

The man's smile was suddenly taking on an unfriendly edge. The hand that was not clutching the coins pulled out a pocket knife, thumbing open a blade with practiced ease. Arthur's breath caught in his throat. Light from a flickering telescreen ran down the sharp edge of the knife.

"You can hand over your phone."

Everything from after he saw the knife became a blur of motions. He had probably taken a step or two back, because the man had pursued with a vicious slash of his knife that nicked too close for comfort, causing him to trip over a kerb and fall with a sickening smack to his head. Then the world exploded into a roar of dancing searchlights, and men had dropped from the sky shouting, "Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon _now_!"

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the pavement, clutching a handkerchief to the side of his head to staunch the blood from what one of the Thought Police had tutted as 'a nasty cut'. He was aware of someone calling for an ambulance.

"They'll be here in a few minutes." The Thought Police who had given him the handkerchief gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. He had taken off his riot helmet to reveal blond hair slicked back with gel and a pair of very sharp blue eyes.

"Thank you, officer," Arthur said weakly.

"Don't mention it."

The ambulance crew had cleaned his wound the best they could on the spot, checked for signs of a concussion, then carted him off to accident and emergency to get it sewn. The Thought Police with too much gel in his hair had followed to ask him some questions.

"Where were you coming from and where were you heading towards when the suspect confronted you?"

"I was on my way home from work. I live just a little down the road when he, I mean the 'suspect' – well, he was asking for some change," Arthur ended a little feebly.

He was sitting on the side of the surgery's examination table, feeling light-headed and a little tender. A nurse was busy fixing a linen bandage around his head. The Thought Police scribbled some notes onto his notescreen, his hand looking far too big for the stylus he was using.

"Have you ever seen the suspect before this evening?"

"No." He thought for a moment. "Maybe. I don't know, officer."

"You don't know?"

"I can't remember if I've seen him before or not."

The Thought Police scribbled some more onto his device.

"Mr Kirkland, you are free to go now," the nurse said, placing a hand on his arm and smiling sympathetically.

"Oh. Er, right. Thank you."

"Would you like us to call your husband to pick you up?"

Arthur stared blankly at her for a while, uncomprehending. Then he realised that she must have accessed his personal data and seen that he was still, as far as the state was concern, married. He did not know what to say.

"No, er, thank you, but no. I, er, I don't want to, er, alarm him…" he trailed off. He saw the nurse's smile waver with confusion.

"Very well then, Mr Kirkland, you are free to leave after you check out. Have a good evening."

It was then that Arthur noticed that the Thought Police had not stopped writing once. He was suddenly very weary.

"May I leave now, sir?"

"Yes. We'll contact you for further questioning if needed, and to update you on the case."

Arthur nodded, and instantly wished he had not when his head began to throb.

"Stay safe, Mr Kirkland."

The first thing Arthur did when he got home was to pour a shot of whiskey and down it. The alcohol melted the icy pit in his stomach and left a pleasing burn in his throat. As he poured himself a more generous glass, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He put down the whiskey and gripped the edge of the counter, willing himself to calm down.

_Calm down? That man had a knife!_ His brain screamed silently. The whiskey suddenly did not seem like such a good idea.

He took a deep, deep breath. Reminded himself that he was alive. He was alive.

Once his trembling had subsided, he poured the whiskey back into the decanter and put the kettle on for some tea instead. He looked into the fridge for something to eat, found a ready-made meal and popped it into the microwave. He felt much better after putting something hot in his belly.

He took a shower, taking extra care not to wet his bandage, and decided to turn in early for the night. Then he remembered the diary. He retrieved it from the bedside drawer.

It had been a week since he began keeping the diary, and he had written in an entry almost every night. When he opened the diary, it fell on the page from yesterday. It simply read:

_Went to work and returned home. Nothing out of the ordinary._

He smiled wryly at that. He took out the fountain pen and a pot of ink, and set them on his work desk. He fitted the nib to the pen, unscrewed the cap off the bottle of ink and dipped it in, and brought it to a fresh page.

_G came to apologise for the delay in getting a new computer. He said the request might have gotten lost in the chain of command._

_Met B in the lobby after work. He asked about Y and I._

_Got assaulted on the way home from the train station. The Thought Police intervened before it got out of hand. Fell and cut myself on the side of the head which necessitated a trip to the hospital._

He read over his words. That summed up the day quite succinctly. Then he remembered the nurse who had treated him at the hospital, and her well-intentioned offer to call for Yao.

He looked up from the diary and glanced around the bedroom. There were traces of Yao even after almost two years of him leaving. It was Yao who had picked those stiff maroon curtains on the window, and the king sized bed had been a joint purchase on their wedding day. The bedside drawer on what had been his side of the bed was still crammed with his belongings; broken styluses, old phones abandoned for newer models, pen drives storing forgotten data. There was also a bag full of clothes he had left behind, pushed right to the back of the closet.

Arthur sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The memories were pouring in, unbidden.

They first met at an official Party gathering. Both had been quite lonely, friendless and without family, and the coffee dates quickly developed into dinners and kisses on doorsteps. Eager to make things work, they bought the apartment together a year later. They spent several weekends decorating it, moving in their belongings. Slowly building a life together.

Marriage had been the obvious next step. The wedding was a modest affair of exchanging vows in the witness of a Party representative, the celebration little more than a simple kiss on the steps of the civil registry.

Yao worked for the Ministry of Love, the most secretive of all the four Ministries. The nature of his work was also a secret, and his hours were long and irregular. He often came home very late at night. Arthur tried to be a supportive husband. He would stay up as long as it took for Yao to return home, and made sure to have a bath and a hot meal prepared (he was not particularly talented in the kitchen, so there had been a few minor disasters). He made pots of tea and gave massages, and generally fussed over Yao until he relaxed enough to smile. They usually end up curled together on the sofa to read or to watch something silly on the telescreen before turning in for the night.

It was sometimes trying, but they made it work.

One night, Yao came home with the proud announcement that he had been promoted. Arthur's happiness for him quickly dissipated when Yao began coming home later and later from work. The first time he did not come home at all, Arthur had stayed up all night worrying and convincing himself that something must have happened. He was beside himself with relief when Yao finally turned up.

"Where were you, you had me so worried!" He went to embrace Yao.

"…were you up all night?" Yao sounded shocked. He saw several cups of tea lying on the dining table, some undrunk and stone cold.

"You could have texted me if you weren't coming home! Please don't do that again, I was going to call the police…"

Yao only burrowed into his chest and muttered something inaudible.

From then on, Yao stayed at work all night at least twice a week. Arthur stopped waiting up for him altogether. He would leave some food in the oven, and find them eaten the next morning with a note of thanks on the fridge's notescreen. Yao often fell asleep on the sofa instead of coming into bed. Their working hours meant that they often missed each other, and days would pass without a proper conversation between them.

_This isn't how a marriage should be_, Arthur thought as he watched Yao stumble in one morning. He prepared two helpings of beans on toast with eggs; his breakfast, Yao's supper. They ate in silence for a while, until Arthur decided he had had enough.

"Let's go out for dinner tonight."

Yao, who had been picking listlessly at his food, looked up in surprise. The tiredness etched across his usually youthful face overcame Arthur with guilt.

"That would be nice," Yao said eventually, and attempted a weak smile.

Arthur booked a table for two at a restaurant before leaving for work. He could not wait for the day to finish, and almost ran out of the ministry at the end of his shift. He stopped to buy some flowers on his way home. He wanted to spoil Yao tonight, as he had been unable to do for many nights now.

When he came home, however, the place was empty. There was a hastily scribbled note on the fridge's notescreen which read: _Out for a short while. Will be back soon_.

He put the flowers in some water and read a little on his e-reader to while away the time. When it came to a quarter to seven, he rang the restaurant and pushed their booking to eight o'clock. When it came to a quarter to eight, he rang the restaurant again and pushed their booking to nine o'clock. He cancelled their booking at nine o'clock. Frustrated, he put his e-reader away and took to staring at the blank telescreen, stewing in his own thoughts.

When Yao finally came home, it was almost midnight. Arthur got up from the sofa and rounded up on him.

"Just where the hell have you been?"

Yao's exhaustion slipped behind a cool mask. "I was called into work," he said frostily.

"And you couldn't have texted me that you were going to be late? We were supposed to have dinner together! I had to cancel our booking because I didn't know when y–"

Yao's phone rang, interrupting him. Yao turned away from Arthur and answered it with a brusque, "What?"

Something snapped then. Arthur snatched the phone out of his hand and pressed it to his ear in time to hear, "–and he's finally talking, so you need to come in."

"This is his husband speaking. We are currently in the middle of a discussion, so kindly wait for him to call you back."

He hung up and threw the phone onto the sofa. Yao was seething with a rare fury of his own.

"You had no right, Arthur, you had no right! You could have heard something you weren't meant to hear! You could h–"

Arthur cut him off with a swift kiss. He was angry and he was disappointed, but above all he was scared. Scared at how fast their relationship was deteriorating. Yao resisted him, struggled to pull free. Arthur held tight to his arm and half-dragged him into the bedroom, threw him onto their bed that had been cold for too long.

"Arthur!" It cracked with an emotion he could not discern.

"Just one night, just this one night, please!" Arthur heard himself begging. "Stay home, Yao, please, just stay home!"

He did not get a response. Yao's hand cupped to his cheek and gently thumbed away the tears he had not noticed spilling. He felt himself collapse then; he wrapped his arms around Yao and held him tight as he shook with quiet, wracking sobs.

That had been the last time they spent the night together. They never spoke of it afterwards. Yao started disappearing to work for days at a time, and Arthur stopped caring. They lived separate lives and simply drifted apart, and since neither knew how to fix it they settled for being strangers. The bitterness that developed turned into outright hostility, and Yao simply left.

Arthur blinked and looked down at the diary. He had written something.

_We were happy once, I think._

He stared at the words for a contemplative moment. Then he closed the diary and went to bed.

* * *

**Author's comment**

It's a little IggyChu!centric this chapter, sorry. We'll return to regular PrUK in the next chapter.


End file.
